The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins [best motivational books of all time .TXT] 📗

“Quick!” she whispered. “Six drops, in water. Don’t let Rachel see.”

Under other circumstances, I should have thought this strange. There was no time now to think⁠—there was only time to give the medicine. Dear Mr. Godfrey unconsciously assisted me in concealing what I was about from Rachel, by speaking composing words to her at the other end of the room.

“Indeed, indeed, you exaggerate,” I heard him say. “My reputation stands too high to be destroyed by a miserable passing scandal like this. It will be all forgotten in another week. Let us never speak of it again.” She was perfectly inaccessible, even to such generosity as this. She went on from bad to worse.

“I must, and will, stop it,” she said. “Mamma! hear what I say. Miss Clack! hear what I say. I know the hand that took the Moonstone. I know⁠—” she laid a strong emphasis on the words; she stamped her foot in the rage that possessed her⁠—“I know that Godfrey Ablewhite is innocent. Take me to the magistrate, Godfrey! Take me to the magistrate, and I will swear it!”

My aunt caught me by the hand, and whispered, “Stand between us for a minute or two. Don’t let Rachel see me.” I noticed a bluish tinge in her face which alarmed me. She saw I was startled. “The drops will put me right in a minute or two,” she said, and so closed her eyes, and waited a little.

While this was going on, I heard dear Mr. Godfrey still gently remonstrating.

“You must not appear publicly in such a thing as this,” he said. “Your reputation, dearest Rachel, is something too pure and too sacred to be trifled with.”

“My reputation!” She burst out laughing. “Why, I am accused, Godfrey, as well as you. The best detective officer in England declares that I have stolen my own Diamond. Ask him what he thinks⁠—and he will tell you that I have pledged the Moonstone to pay my private debts!” She stopped, ran across the room⁠—and fell on her knees at her mother’s feet. “Oh mamma! mamma! mamma! I must be mad⁠—mustn’t I?⁠—not to own the truth now?” She was too vehement to notice her mother’s condition⁠—she was on her feet again, and back with Mr. Godfrey, in an instant. “I won’t let you⁠—I won’t let any innocent man⁠—be accused and disgraced through my fault. If you won’t take me before the magistrate, draw out a declaration of your innocence on paper, and I will sign it. Do as I tell you, Godfrey, or I’ll write it to the newspapers⁠—I’ll go out, and cry it in the streets!”

We will not say this was the language of remorse⁠—we will say it was the language of hysterics. Indulgent Mr. Godfrey pacified her by taking a sheet of paper, and drawing out the declaration. She signed it in a feverish hurry. “Show it everywhere⁠—don’t think of me,” she said, as she gave it to him. “I am afraid, Godfrey, I have not done you justice, hitherto, in my thoughts. You are more unselfish⁠—you are a better man than I believed you to be. Come here when you can, and I will try and repair the wrong I have done you.”

She gave him her hand. Alas, for our fallen nature! Alas, for Mr. Godfrey! He not only forgot himself so far as to kiss her hand⁠—he adopted a gentleness of tone in answering her which, in such a case, was little better than a compromise with sin. “I will come, dearest,” he said, “on condition that we don’t speak of this hateful subject again.” Never had I seen and heard our Christian Hero to less advantage than on this occasion.

Before another word could be said by anybody, a thundering knock at the street door startled us all. I looked through the window, and saw the World, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting before the house⁠—as typified in a carriage and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most audaciously dressed women I ever beheld in my life.

Rachel started, and composed herself. She crossed the room to her mother.

“They have come to take me to the flower-show,” she said. “One word, mamma, before I go. I have not distressed you, have I?”

(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which could ask such a question as that, after what had just happened, to be pitied or condemned? I like to lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.)

The drops had produced their effect. My poor aunt’s complexion was like itself again. “No, no, my dear,” she said. “Go with our friends, and enjoy yourself.”

Her daughter stooped, and kissed her. I had left the window, and was near the door, when Rachel approached it to go out. Another change had come over her⁠—she was in tears. I looked with interest at the momentary softening of that obdurate heart. I felt inclined to say a few earnest words. Alas! my well-meant sympathy only gave offence. “What do you mean by pitying me?” she asked in a bitter whisper, as she passed to the door. “Don’t you see how happy I am? I’m going to the flower-show, Clack; and I’ve got the prettiest bonnet in London.” She completed the hollow mockery of that address by blowing me a kiss⁠—and so left the room.

I wish I could describe in words the compassion I felt for this miserable and misguided girl. But I am almost as poorly provided with words as with money. Permit me to say⁠—my heart bled for her.

Returning to my aunt’s chair, I observed dear Mr. Godfrey searching for something softly, here and there, in different parts of the room. Before I could offer to assist him he had found what he wanted. He came back to my aunt and me, with his declaration of innocence in one hand, and with a box of matches in the other.

“Dear aunt, a little conspiracy!” he said. “Dear Miss Clack, a pious fraud which even your high moral rectitude will excuse! Will you